


Minutes

by alarmclock



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Love Confessions, M/M, One Shot, because me too tbh, idiots to lovers, now for the real tags, the smallest bit of quickly resolved angst, this is for the folks who perish at the mere thought of them holding hands, tv show compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-07 05:45:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19203094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alarmclock/pseuds/alarmclock
Summary: You can stay at my place, if you like.Now that the World hasn’t ended, Aziraphale sees Crowley's flat for the first time.





	Minutes

**Author's Note:**

> This idea would not leave me alone. Hope you all enjoy!

What’s one to do when you’re terrified that you’ll lose everything? You haven’t lost it yet, sure, but in a few minutes…

And what’s a few minutes to a being that has been alive for 6000 years? For longer, if you count the time before time got all worked out.

If you asked Crowley these questions before the End of the World, he’d answer like this:

_“Drink, quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol.”_

_“Barely a thing at all, except, mind you, every minute of the 14th century.”_

If you asked Crowley these questions once the End of the World ended, he wouldn’t answer you at all. 

For starters, he wouldn’t say such things to a stranger. 

_Stop time, if you can._

As for the second question... he wouldn’t have an answer to tell you, even if he actually wanted to.

* * *

Crowley holds the door open as Aziraphale steps into his flat. The angel shifts to the side to make room for the demon’s entrance. 

Crowley turns and shuts the door with a sense of finality. Not complete finality, mind. There is still the whole business of vengeance being rained down from on high and erupting from down low. However, while their former colleagues have hardly disappeared, closing the door gives Crowley the sense that the universe will wait its turn for once. He pauses and lets this sense sink in, hand still on the door. Just as it had done so often in the past, the silent stillness of his flat gives him a moment to breathe.

Once the moment passes, it dawns on Crowley that his flat should not be silent nor still. 

He turns his head to look at Aziraphale, who is taking in the room. The angel slowly scans the space, as if there is much else of note besides concrete, glass, and the furniture Crowley had miracled out of the “modern interior design” tag on Pinterest. Crowley watches as Aziraphale’s hands clasp together, one thumb rubbing the top of the other hand, as the angel was wont to do when he was nervous. 

“I don’t believe I’ve ever been to your flat before,” Aziraphale says abruptly before following up, rather lamely, with, “it’s quite nice, my dear fellow.” 

And Crowley is struck by how out of place Aziraphale looks, all creams and warmth against the gray-black of the flat. There is no golden lamplight and the books on his shelf look as new as the day he miracled them there. 

_You can stay at my place, if you like._

Suddenly feeling terribly foolish, Crowley lurches towards his bedroom. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale voice floats from behind, a touch nervous. 

“Settle in, angel. I just need to do something. To change,” Crowley calls back, attempting to inject even a little bit of self-respect into his tone. He closes the door behind him. 

A delicate _knock knock._

“Crowley? Are you alright?” 

Crowley crosses his room and opens his closet door louder than strictly necessary, slides the hangers back and forth a bit. 

“All good and all that. Bloody tired though.”

Some more shifting the hangers about.

“There’s a guest room down the hall to your right if you want a second.”

Aziraphale doesn’t leave, so Crowley takes out a suit jacket at random and tosses it on the bed. He feels more than hears when the angel finally walks away. 

Once silence reigns, Crowley sits heavily on the edge of his bed. He makes to rub at his eyes, but is momentarily stymied by his sunglasses. Shoving his fists underneath the lens, he takes several deep breaths in an attempt to collect himself. Unfortunately, his coherent thoughts aren’t much of an improvement. 

His sofa isn’t made for lounging so much as looking. The only blankets in the flat are the ones folded neatly on the beds. He has teacups, but he’d likely have to miracle the dust off of them. There was a Starbucks across the street for Somebody’s sake. What need had he had for non-dusty teacups?

The bookshop was gone. So was the creased leather sofa, the blanket that was for Crowley only, the aging silver platter that carried tea for two. 

Crowley has space for Aziraphale, but Aziraphale had made space for him. 

The demon jolts up, once more filled with nervous energy. At least this time he has a bit of purpose. Crowley strides out his bedroom door and turns right. A few moments later, he pulls up short. The guest bedroom door is wide open and the room itself is empty. 

“Angel?”

“In here.”

Crowley walks fully down the hall. As he enters into his plant room, he catches movement out of the corner of his eye as Aziraphale snatches his hand back from a fiddle leaf fig. The angel quickly shakes out his hand, the tell-tale burning blue of magic fizzling out of existence. The fig, which was wiggling in delight, freezes once it realizes Crowley is present.

“You’re giving it the wrong idea,” Crowley accuses. 

“I haven’t the slightest clue what you are talking about,” Aziraphale replies as if he’s never heard Crowley complain about the indoor azaleas not taking threats seriously.

“You know and _they_ know that they need to make it on their own.”

Crowley gestures broadly around the room, the plants leaning away from his hand. 

“Well now, I don’t know about that. You’ve given them some lovely looking pots and a big window to work with. And just across the way I saw another nice little room—"

On instinct, Crowley had leaped forward and slapped his hand across Aziraphale’s mouth. It wouldn’t do for this set of plants to find out; he’d never regain his reputation. 

All thoughts of reputation flee when he feels the corners of the angel’s mouth lift into a smile. 

Crowley remains frozen until Aziraphale grasps his wrist, at which point the demon drops his hand. Doing so has the rather abrupt effect of pulling away from Aziraphale’s grip and Crowley watches in private dismay as the angel’s face returns to neutral.

They stand in silence for a moment. Aziraphale’s eyes remain on Crowley. The moon casts one side of his face in soft white light and the other in shadow. 

“I suppose— I suppose my point is that they really do,” he waves a hand vaguely at the fiddle leaf fig, “deserve a nice home… some, ah, support.” 

Here the angel pauses, lifts his eyebrows ever so slightly, and tilts his head towards Crowley. 

“And, certainly, some kind words. And…”

Crowley, who thinks he might understand the point, waits expectantly for Aziraphale to finish his thought. Aziraphale folds his hands together and goes quiet. They stand in silence again, just looking at each other. 

Once the silence had gone on for about 1.8 seconds too long, Crowley forces himself to release the tension that had built up in his body. He had thought, but what he had thought clearly didn’t bare repeating. He glances at the clock on the wall, just for something to look at instead of the angel. 11:56pm. 

“It’s getting late. We need to talk about what we are going to do tomorrow,” Crowley says.

“Oh no, don’t you change the subject,” Aziraphale replies indignantly, the unexpected vehemence in his tone snapping Crowley’s focus back to the angel in front of him. 

“What subject? Plants? Not important right now, angel. Seems you’re forgetting the combined forces of heaven and hell are going to be out for blood come morning,” Crowley retorts, “if they aren’t already on their way here!”

At this point, Aziraphale has drawn himself up, a flush spreading across his cheeks. A distant corner of Crowley’s mind, the majority of which being occupied with a healthy mix of embarrassment and frustration, remarks that Aziraphale looks to be in one of his rare, royally pissed moods. 

“All the more reason to talk about this now!” the angel insists.

Crowley opens his mouth to reply. It’s at about mid-mouth-open that the thoughts Crowley had thought did, in fact, repeat themselves. Before he can figure out what to do with them, Aziraphale steps forward, closing the space between them. Crowley shuts his mouth. 

“I- I won’t mince words anymore, Crowley,” Aziraphale stutters out, the fight in him gone as quick as it came, “when you said that we are on our own side. And you invited me here. Well, I thought. There were implications. Implications to what you said. And I feel—” 

When Aziraphale touches his face, the hands of the clock above them stop moving. In fact, everything in the flat stops working. 

But even as time freezes, Crowley’s mind races. This is it. He hopes. He hopes desperately. But he also fears. He fears desperately, too. There can be no mistakes.

“Crowley.” 

His name, spoken barely above a whisper, brings the demon back to himself. 

Aziraphale slowly lifts his other hand and grips the side of Crowley’s sunglasses. He gives them a slight tug, telegraphing his intent. When Crowley doesn’t object, Aziraphale slides the frames off and tucks them into Crowley’s collar, looking down as he does. The angel's hand stays over the sunglasses, curled fingers lightly touching the demon’s chest. When Aziraphale makes eye contact again, Crowley summons the wherewithal to raise his eyebrows. 

“I like seeing them, you know. They help me figure out how you feel,” Aziraphale says quietly, by way of explanation. 

At that, Crowley can’t help but shut his eyes. He turns his face into the hand cupping his cheek. Heart pounding, he presses a kiss on Aziraphale’s palm. 

He hears a sharp intake of breath before the hand clutched to his chest moves to the other side of his face. He opens his eyes to check on the angel, only for them to shut again when Aziraphale kisses him. 

Crowley lets himself believe. 

And time unfreezes.

When Aziraphale draws back, Crowley’s eyes open and he takes in the angel before him. He’s been looking at the angel for millennia. It occurs to him now that he’s free to do so. 

“My dear, breathe,” Aziraphale says, not unkindly, but not without a touch of humor either. 

Crowley breaths in, brings his arms around Aziraphale, and drops his head onto his angel’s shoulder.

It’s been a long, long day. 

“I should have been saying it. All this time,” Aziraphale says, his voice tremulous, “if only I had a bit of a spine. I’m so sorry.” 

Crowley tightens his hold and the angel tightens his own grip in response. He shakes his head against Aziraphale’s neck. 

“We were both scared. Both of us. It’s okay.”

The clock, annoyed to find itself a few minutes behind, lets out a rather rude little chime. It’s tomorrow, then. 

Aziraphale leans back, but doesn’t let go. 

“To tell the truth, Crowley, I’m still quite scared.” 

Crowley lifts his head, but slides his hand down to take Aziraphale’s. 

“Yeah,” he brings the back of Aziraphale’s hand to his lips, “me too.” 

“Well, who knows, maybe Alpha Centuri really is the place to go,” Aziraphale says, making an attempt at upbeat. 

Crowley’s mouth sets in a firm line. It might still be their best option, no matter how Crowley loathes it.

A quick glance away from their joined hands and towards Crowley’s eyes has Aziraphale’s voice softening into something somber, but more genuine. 

“I’m quite sure we can figure this out, my dear. We’ve done decently well for ourselves so far,” he pats his breast pocket where Agnes Nutter’s prophecy rests, “we’ve got some reliable advice, as well.” 

Aziraphale pauses for a moment, clearly considering their situation. 

“And I could do with something warm to drink,” he declares, giving Crowley’s hand a squeeze. 

Crowley nods, but mostly to himself.

“I’ll get the teacups.”

* * *

_They’re everything, if you’re with the right person._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I really hope you liked it. Some notes: 
> 
> Of course, I had to pick a plant for Crowley and one for Aziraphale. Crowley is the fiddle leaf fig, which is described here as “Tall, structural, and dramatic. This plant will flourish in the right conditions.” [(link)](https://bloomscape.com/product/fiddle-leaf-fig/?attribute_pa_pot=stone&utm_source=google&utm_medium=cpc&utm_campaign=_LS_Smart_Shopping&utm_term=&gclid=EAIaIQobChMInIjMiffh4gIVm1cNCh1-2QU0EAQYASABEgKk-PD_BwE). In my opinion, they also kind of look like what Crowley has in his flat on the show. However, I’m no gardener so please take that with a grain of salt. The indoor azaleas are for Aziraphale for three reasons. 1) I couldn’t resist a bit of word play 2) they can be beautiful, light-colored flowers and 3) the idea that Crowley would subconsciously buy them because of reasons 1) and 2) and then be dismayed to find they are difficult to get to bloom more than once. 
> 
> Finally, the “1.8 seconds” is an incredibly minor reference to Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18 [(link)](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45087/sonnet-18-shall-i-compare-thee-to-a-summers-day). It’s such an unintelligible reference that I feel the need to tell you here just so I can point out that the sonnet is very “what Crowley feels about Aziraphale”. Now you are burdened with this knowledge just like me. I’m sorry.


End file.
